


We're Still Here

by daisybrien



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, Post-Battle of Hogwarts, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-05
Updated: 2015-07-05
Packaged: 2018-04-07 20:18:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4276608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daisybrien/pseuds/daisybrien
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean and Seamus find each other in the aftermath. (For HPshipweeks).</p>
            </blockquote>





	We're Still Here

**Author's Note:**

> *Walks into HP fandom two years late with starbucks* What did I miss

Dean stumbles over the rubble of the castle, tripping as his ankle twists over the uneven terrain. He kicks his feet out as he walks, debris flying forwards with each stride, the sound of rock clacking against rock snapping in his still ringing ears. He looks down the mountain of shambles he’s trying to descend, other students hovering around the base, trying to salvage whatever bodies they can fish out from beneath the remains of the school walls. 

He had climbed his way to the top to get a view of the courtyard, the battle’s ruthlessness leaving massive stretches of the school walls open and broken. The remains of the crumbled walls created a perfect point to survey the school grounds, only taking a few minutes of unsteady footholds to get to the top. He had spent his time there with a hand above his eyes to shade against the glaring sun, finally rising after the hell of battle. It brought with it the welcome feeling of respite, the dregs of students made fighters finally able to breathe a justified and earned sigh of relief. He had scanned over the span of the horizon, watching straggling wixes going about to clean up the mess, sometimes entire pieces of broken stone rising up and back into place, slowly but surely bringing the structure of Hogwarts back to its pristineness. 

Even as high up as he had been, Dean has no luck in his search, the familiar mess of sandy hair nowhere to be seen among the wreckage.

He almost falls on his face as he finds his way to the bottom, his feet finally steadying once they plant themselves on the solid stone of the school’s corridors. He kicks up pieces of wall in his wake, tumbling down behind him in a mini avalanche, cascading down on the hands of the people searching through the rubble, another fine layer of dust settling into their hair, their bodies and clothes a greyish colour.

“Watch it,” calls a wary voice. There’s a hint of harshness in the tone, drowned out by the exhaustion lacing each syllable of the words. Dean turns to glance at its source, his eyes meeting that of a young girl’s. Her face is round and dusted with freckles, eyes big and red rimmed. Lines streak through the layer of dust that covers her cheeks, connecting eyes to chin. She is way too young to have fought, Dean thinks. But they had lost many of the younger students, ignorant and ambitious in their bravado, underestimating the power of the villain they were facing. He can’t help but be glad, knowing her face, although unfamiliar, will not join their ranks of the dead.

He starts to make his way towards the Great Hall, joining the flow of stragglers abandoning their attempts at search and clean up, funnelling through its doors. There will always be time to clean the mess after a well-deserved rest and celebration.

“Oi, Dean,” someone calls him from over by the mountain of debris. He recognizes the face from the Hufflepuff quidditch team. “You going to help us out?”

He ignores the question. “Have you seen Seamus anywhere?”

“Oh,” says the student, stooping down to pick a piece of jagged rock from the pile. They make a comment under their breath, a soft ‘of course’ the only words Dean can pick up in the din, one eyebrow raised as they look at him. “He’s fine. I saw him somewhere. He’s probably looking for you, too.”

Dean’s chest seems to swell at the words, relief washing over him in a wave. He turns away from the pile, a voice calling him back in protest. He pretends he doesn’t hear it, rushing into the Great Hall to find him.

The hall is packed wall-to-wall, bodies pressing against each other as they make their way through the thin paths made between tables and stretchers lying across the floor. The injured lay in rows, bloodied bandages wrapped over bodies and limbs plastered into casts, bruises and scrapes decorating people’s faces like war medals. Dean’s stomach churns at the sight, claustrophobia setting in. He takes a deep breath, settling himself against one of the walls.

His eyes scan the room, darting back and forth with the movement of the crowd. He sees the Weasley family settled in as a clump by the far corner, sees Neville limping by, the Sword of Godric Gryffindor hanging limply in his hand, its tip scraping across the stone floor. While the faces of the familiar smiling through their haggardness bring more relief, he still can’t find the face he is looking for. If Seamus were in the hall in the first place, Dean was sure he wouldn’t be able to see his head above the others due to the boy’s short stature, even if Dean could look over most of them himself.

The crowd in the hall only thickens, moving slow like molasses, the voices culminating into a crescendo of deafening jubilance. Dean has to excuse himself, squeezing out against the flow of people coming in, hoping he hasn’t already missed Seamus, who might have already joined in the festivities. Their victory is overwhelming for him, the endless joy of their saved world, the innocent free to be themselves without the looming threat of destruction; it was all tainted by an awful bittersweetness. So many had died, some unwillingly, some for the sake of freedom - his freedom. He was so close to being one of them himself, the sheer realization of his body, breathing lungs and beating heart still working and thriving, is enough to knock him to his knees.

His feet carry him by their own will, taking him farther still from the bustle still sounding faintly from the Great Hall. He hears voices echo off the walls - the remaining parts of them, at least – and Dean tries to follow the sound through the twisting passageways. He wonders if he can find anyone else, more familiar faces that could point him to the one he’s looking forward to the most. 

He passes few people on his journey, small clumps of people with injured bodies and tattered clothes making their way in the opposite direction, smiling as tears stream down their faces. He gives them little more than a friendly nod as they pass by, his feet moving faster in his desperation.

He’s about to give up until he hears a voice boom from around a corner, the accent thick and unmistakable. He barrels around the corner, finding the hall empty but for one body at the end, limping as they curse at an offending chunk of rubble that they must have tripped over while on their merry way.

They pause for a moment, eyes meeting in a gaze of recognition before they run towards each other. They grab each other in a bear hug, bodies slamming hard enough that Dean can feel the breath being knocked out of him, pain blooming in his damaged ribs. He ignores it, only caring about the shaking body in his arms, fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt, his face pressed far enough into his hair that he almost chokes on the dust settled in it. 

“Oh thank god,” Seamus says. “We both made it out.” He pulls away, holding Dean at arms length to look him over. Dean can do nothing but stare at his face, counting the freckles dusting his cheeks to see if they’re all still there, eyes dancing across the blotches of blues and purples and even hints of green blooming across his face. He knows most of them are old, and he had gasped at seeing them on Seamus’ face in the all too brief moment they had before battle had broken out. He takes the time now to brush his fingers over them gently, finding the new and still bloody gash across his forehead, the bruise blossoming across his neck and up his chin. One of his eyes is almost completely swollen shut.

“Oi, earth to Dean.” Seamus’ voice knocks him out of his reverie, Dean’s hand falling from the other boy’s cheek. “Seem a little spaced out there, friend. You still in there?”

“Yeah,” Dean laughs out, smiling widely enough that his cheeks start to hurt. “I’m still here.” He continues. “We’re still here,” he breathes out, and he thinks he will probably never know a feeling of joy much greater than this moment in his lifetime.

He thinks it would be a good time to kiss him.

The press of his mouth against Seamus’ elicits a sound of surprise from deep in his throat. It takes a while before Seamus realizes the gravity of the situation, letting his muscles relax from their stiff stature, turning his head to make the kiss a little more comfortable. Dean can feel the scab on Seamus’ own lips, swollen from its bruising, but it doesn’t matter to him; he only makes sure to be a little more gentle in his pressure. Dean feels arms wrap around his torso, and he replies with a similar motion in turn, until the two of them are swaying alone in the hall, wrapped up in each other’s embrace, lips unmoving in their chaste and awkward kiss. It’s only when Dean’s neck starts to ache from leaning down that he pushes back, reluctantly breaking the tenuous connection.

Seamus looks up at him slowly, eyelashes shading the blue of his eyes, hazy from their kiss. They stand silently with each other, heat rising in Dean’s cheeks before Seamus’ face breaks out in a smile, a small laugh drifting from both of them.

“Wow,” Seamus says. “You disappear for almost a year, don’t answer any of my letters, and then barely say a word before making a move? What kind of man, Dean Thomas.”

Dean wants to laugh wholeheartedly; he knows Seamus is only trying to make a joke, and his mischief and snark was something he had missed the most while on the run, enough that Dean had drawn the clever smirk on his face in his scrapbook a million times during the cold nights when he couldn’t sleep and his tent did nothing to ward off the weather’s harsh bite. Instead he chokes back a sob, tears welling in his eyes as his throat closes, his words thick. “I missed you.”

“Could have told me that hours ago before we got pummelled by a bunch of Death Eaters.”

“Too little time,” Dean chokes out. “And I’d rather say it now that we both made it out.”

“I missed you, too,” Seamus says softly. “I never want to lose you for that long again.” His hands reach up to cup Dean’s jaw, and this time he stretches up to meet him halfway. It’s shorter, but more coordinated, not as clumsy as their first kiss had been. His calloused thumbs brush away the tears threatening to spill from Dean’s eyes.

When the pull apart again, Dean sniffs, wiping his nose with his sleeve, sneezing as dust fills his nose. He manages a small smile, and Seamus coughs out a laugh, cringing.

“Disgusting,” Seamus says, and the two of them chortle, their stomachs hurting from the force, so much joy overwhelming them that they can’t seem to stop their fit of laughter. “You should get to the Great Hall, get yourself cleaned up.”

“I need to get cleaned up?” Dean exclaims. “Your face is all bruise. I’d say you need it more.”

“Fancy to take me there, then?” Seamus grins, eyes twinkling. His hand finds Dean’s, their fingers lacing together.

“I wouldn’t mind,” Dean says softly. He squeezes Seamus’ hand, pulling him along as he turns back to maneuver through the maze of corridors again.

Seamus follows dutifully, their shoulders brushing against each other, a grazing, electric touch that leaves Dean breathless. Their hands relinquish their hold as they make their way to the Great Hall, but their closeness is never sacrificed, only moving when one of them trips over the other’s foot, or to make their way around a particularly large piece of rubble. As the din of the hall grow louder, a cacophony of cheering and exuberant voices, they squeeze closer, and Dean feels secure in knowing he’s maintained one sense of security; the castle’s strength even through battle and damage, the sound of celebration even in the death and suffering that marks it, and the feeling of Seamus by his side reminds him that he will never have to hide again, and that no one after him will ever have to suffer in the way his generation did, their names shouted through history until the end of time for their sacrifice.

**Author's Note:**

> Come get your cliche post-battle fics here.
> 
> Also my first big thing for Dean/Seamus can I get a hell yeah.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [We're Still Here by daisybrien [Podfic]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7949203) by [Rhea314 (Rhea)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rhea/pseuds/Rhea314)




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